The Musical Talents of John H Watson
by TYRider
Summary: It all starts when Sherlock arrives home at 3am and finds the typical predawn silence of 221b disturbed. He discovers that his flatmate has a secret gift... or two. May be a oneshot with the possibility of becoming a multichapter fic. Please read and review! I swear the story is better than the summary! No slash. Mystery/humor/hurt/comfort/friendship


**A/N: Just an idea that lodged itself in my mind and just wouldn't go away. May be a oneshot, may turn into a chapter fic. Let me know what you think!  
Disclaimer: Don't own.**

Sherlock crept up the stairs to 221b as quietly as possible. He expertly avoided all the creaky steps that might betray his presence, sometimes having to skip two stairs in the process. It was three in the morning and John would be asleep, not expecting Sherlock's arrival home until the next day—well, later this day, rather.

Puzzled, Sherlock paused at the top of the stairs before opening the door to the flat. It sounded like music coming from inside. His mind whirred through the possibilities.

_Tele? No, John doesn't watch tele this late. Radio? John prefers to sleep in silence. So, unlikely at best. Sound quality? Too clear for broadcast over tele or radio anyway. Muffling suggests second floor not first. Sound itself is instrumental—stringed. One instrument, one player. Tone says guitar—no. Ukulele. Ukulele? Yes, ukulele—a soprano ukulele to be exact. Odd. Conclusion: there is someone upstairs in the flat playing a soprano ukulele at three in the morning. Where's John?_

Now equal parts worried (though he'd never admit it) and intrigued, he opened the door as quietly as possible. He hoped to catch the musician unawares. So, with cat-like silence he made his way up the next flight of stairs to John's room. He paused half-way up, recognizing the tune. _Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata,_ he noted. _Interesting choice._ He resumed his creep up the stairs and finally reached the door to John's bedroom just as the player started the melancholy song all over again.

Dramatically, Sherlock threw the door wide. He was hoping to take the mystery musician by surprise and found himself just as stunned as the man sitting on John's bed strumming the ukulele.

"John?" Sherlock asks in a hushed tone.

Beethoven's sonata ends in a painful _twang_ as John's hand falters and he drops the instrument onto the bed like it had bitten him. John straightened back into military posture and eyed Sherlock warily. He pushed the instrument farther away.

"You weren't supposed to be home until later today. Like, this afternoon," John said in a flat voice.

"You weren't supposed to have hidden talents I didn't know about," Sherlock accused, hurt that John hadn't shared with him and annoyed with himself for not figuring it out sooner. In hindsight he never should have dismissed those fading callouses at face value.

John pursed his lips and regarded Sherlock for a long moment. Reaching some sort of agreement in his own head he nodded once, heaved quite the melodramatic sigh and spoke, "You've got questions."

"Why haven't I heard you play before? More importantly, why were yo playing tonight? Who—" Sherlock was cutoff by John's uplifted hand.

"Let's work on the first two first, alright?" he asked, wearily.

Sherlock nodded slightly.

"First of all: I don't play anymore. Not really. Not since I got back from Afghanistan anyway. I'd almost forgotten about the old thing before tonight, actually." He paused, blue eyes glazed over and faraway. Sherlock studied the discarded instrument while he had the chance.

_Solid wood—mahogany. Older, used—very used, but well kept—loved. Strong emotional attachment, then. A gift. From someone important a long time ago. It's very… John. Familiar, comforting. _Sherlock resisted the urge to blurt out his findings. With anyone else Sherlock wouldn't have cared, but this wasn't anyone else. It was John.

Returning to himself after a moment, John continued, "Why tonight? Well, because—" Sherlock cut him off.

"You had nightmares tonight. _Again._ You were alone and sought… _comfort_ from that _instrument_ and…" Sherlock trailed off, replaying the past few minutes in his head, noting the repetition of the Beethoven's _Pathetique. _He continued, "and that particular song."

Tensing slightly, John nodded once. He clenched and unclenched his left hand to hide the tremors, but it was no use. The ruse was up, Sherlock knew. "Spot on."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to nod.

They sat in the semi-darkness and complete silence, side by side. The abandoned ukulele was perched precariously near the edge of the bed. John had continued to nudge it farther and farther away. Just as it teetered on the edge of ruin Sherlock managed to save the day, snatching it up and holding it gently, like he held his Stradivarius.

He ran his fingers lightly over the face of the instrument, ghosted his fingertips over the strings. He was willing it to reveal its secrets, the ones it shared with John, the ones that John didn't want to share with Sherlock yet. Reluctantly, Sherlock offered the ukulele back to it's owner.

John took it back gingerly and smiled a little.

"Will you play for me?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John began, "but not tonight."


End file.
